


The Lost Boy

by siennna



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennna/pseuds/siennna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Space is a lonely place to travel, and the Doctor has never been good at bearing the weight of his soul alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first Doctor Who fanfic, so let me know what you think! I wrote this because I miss Matt like crazy and I love the parallels between Peter Pan and the Doctor. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Though the Doctor's name is nestled in the darkest corner of the universe—hidden away from prying eyes and ears where none can learn its vowels and consonants—his actions are no secret.

This is what he does:

He descends onto the pavement (or the grass or the hovercraft or wherever else he fancies) and exits the mysterious blue box with an enigmatic smile and an outstretched palm mapped with every corner of space and time. His eyes twinkle and his fingers wiggle in beckoning, and they always follow; they always grab his hand and say _yes._

He knows what will happen later, but he does it anyway.

For his companions, he always chooses brilliant souls with curious, bright eyes and beaming smiles that make his stomach swirl. He meets so many of them, jumps into their lives and then right out again like hopscotch, but he never forgets a single one. Because of this, hundreds upon hundreds of lovely, clever faces haunt his memories, all distinct and persistent and _loud_ in his head.

He remembers with painful clarity the way their eyes swam with sorrow as he closed the doors of the TARDIS, a goodbye still fresh on his lips. He remembers the way their hair curled around his fingers as he brushed it from their foreheads, clearing way for a penitent kiss upon the brow. Their hands were as deliciously warm as their gazes—so trusting and loving and _human—_ and sometimes it was hard to let go.

But he had to. _Has_ to.

He is a time lord; he cannot linger. To stay somewhere for any extended period of time would be the worst form of torture; he simply isn't made to exist in just one place. His brain is a complicated juxtaposition of cogs, coils, humanistic characteristics, memories and emotions, but more _importantly,_ it is filled with logic, and because of the latter – with no thanks to the former – he knows that he'll never meet anyone in the universe, anyone from any time, who he will be content to stay with indefinitely.

It doesn't stop him from searching, though.

* * *

_The Doctor remembers once reading a fairytale about a boy in green jams who swooped down from the starry skies and offered a beckoning hand, with promises of adventure falling jovially from his lips._

**_I'll show you Neverland, Wendy. Come along!_ **

_The Doctor reckons he is a bit like that boy: some mysterious being who fell from the sky like a shooting star and irrevocably altered whoever he touched. In his time, he's taken many people to Neverland: to impossible planets, dead societies, colorful galaxies and much more (so much more). He's changed lives, saved species, rescued damsels and dukes alike—all in enough time to make it home before supper._

**_We can visit all of time and space; you decide! Geronimo!_ **

_He fancies the story quite a bit, and decides that the next time someone asks his name, he'll tell them it's_ **_Peter._ **

* * *

Amy _Pond_

He says contemplatively, enjoying the slight popping sound her last name makes as it leaves his lips. The "P" is rather rounded and it slips from his mouth like a bubble.

_Pond. Pond. Pond._

He leans his head out the TARDIS's door and watches comets whiz past, their tails unruly and aflame. The vastness of space swallows his voice as he sings _Amelia!_ into the darkness, his head tipped back, throat bared to the twinkling stars.

_Rory Williams_

Unspectacular last name, but a rather fun first name. _Rory_ consists of the Doctor's favorite vowels sandwiched between two long, dramatic "R"'s that, as a result, create a fairly pleasant sound.

_Rory. Rory. Rory._

At the top of his lungs, he tells the Solar System the tale of the _Last Centurion_ : laments his struggles, croons his victories. The Doctor's hearts are full when he's finished and his eyes are brimming with saltwater (sometimes he is too human for his own liking).

"I wonder what you lot are doing on earth" is what he says, sitting on the floor, staring at his hands, but what he means is "I miss you both so much that it hurts".

He goes back to watching the comets, but everything is blurry with sadness and he cannot fully appreciate anything at the moment.

* * *

 _Wendy; Peter_ _**loved** _ _Wendy. He took her hand and rescued her from the strict, straight-laced boundaries of her home and showed her endless adventure: pirates, fairies, hidden treasures,_ _**magic.** _

_The Doctor has had many Wendys in his time and he loves them all just as much as Peter loved his companion. He loves them so much that it hurts—that it burns—when he has to say goodbye and return to his place among the stars._

_(He understands why Peter wished to keep Wendy forever-young. Mortality is such a bother)_

* * *

It is time to go, time to move on. He does not care where – the TARDIS has always proved competent in selecting a worthy destination, so he has no worries – he just needs something to do with his eyes, his hands: his restless soul. He needs to keep moving before the loneliness creeps in and leaks from the walls, from the ceiling, oozing from the cracks in his smile and the brokenness in his eyes. He blindly runs a hand down the control module, mashing several colorful buttons and switches until the TARDIS engine rears up once more and careens off into time and space.

When he lands, the Doctor throws the TARDIS doors open wide and steps through the threshold, hands gesticulating excitedly, explanations and anecdotes about this gorgeous planet spilling from his mouth involuntarily.

"A winter sun, I call it. It's not actually a sun, as I'm sure you knew, considering we are currently standing upon it, I just call it that because from a distance it appears to be burning. Beautiful little planet, this is. Did you know it's alive? Not a single thing can live here for more than a few minutes, though not for the reasons you're probably thinking. You think it's too cold to be habitable, yes? But, no, quiet untrue actually. This planet simply prefers solitude and will promptly devour whoever dares to attempt to inhabit it, should they refuse to leave when it initially asks politely. Oh, and when I say devour I mean it sucks one down into its soil and straight to its core to be violently burned then consumed." He grins cheerily despite the last statement and continues on, strolling across the icy surface with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes roaming the scenery in wonder. "It does not mind visitors, however, so we should be fine. Who doesn't appreciate a bit of company every now and again?"

He stops at that phrase, realizing, and the smile immediately falls from his face: he's talking to no one.

He is speaking into the darkness of space on a frozen planet with no one to smile at or chide or excite or adore, because he, like this planet, is unable to have a permanent companion: someone solid, sturdy; strong enough to withstand time, space, and all of the strange things in between.

He is alone.

He looks out at the wintery scene with a different eye, now. One that is less keen and a bit more sorrowful. Icicles drip from the branches of dead, blackened trees, snow flurries fall in slow melancholy, and the beautiful, icy chill of the atmosphere just feel _cold_.

* * *

 _There was forever sun in Neverland, he is sure of it. Peter never knew_ _**cold** _ _._

_(But then, Peter had Wendy and the Lost Boys to keep him warm)_

* * *

The Doctor leans against the control boards and examines the empty TARDIS; she is whirring and blinking and buzzing without anyone to wander about her and gasp in wonder at every switch and flip, and that is practically criminal. He runs a flattened palm down the side of the console in one soothing stroke and mumbles comforting words of "don't worry about being alone," and "it won't be this way for long."

(As he pulls his hand away, he decides not to deeply consider whether the words are meant more for the TARDIS or himself)

* * *

 _Because of his tendency to get lost among the pirates, ticking-clock-alligators, and sparkling fairies, he often forgets that the moral of the story is:_ _**everyone must grow up eventually.** _

_Neverland is a temporary fix: a finite escape. Even the vast outstretches of time and space have their boundaries._

_(He forgets he forgets he_ **_denies_ ** _)_

* * *

There is a dark part of him—a little festering seed that makes its presence known every now and then—that relishes destruction. There is something so clean about it, so final. He leans in the TARDIS's doorframe and watches stars explode—little colorful sunbursts across the velvet backdrop—and relishes the sight; it's his own personal fireworks show, hidden in the privacy of deep, dark space. He doesn't like the destruction of species or anywhere that harbors life, but he doesn't mind it when empty universes combust. He doesn't shed tears over the beautiful death of red giants or supernovas, because there is something very peaceful about the obliteration of stars; they are so old and wise that their collapses feel well-earned.

At last, those silent spectators can rest, away from a history that they have no inclination or ability to impact. And they do not go silently, either; they explode into millions of little atoms and molecules and bits of brightly-colored matter; they shake the universe like the tumbling aftershocks of an earthquake. They die with dignity, power, and a sense of finality that the Doctor envies.

He applauds the passing of stars; they've done their solemn duty of lighting the darkness and now they rest in eternal oblivion.

Goodnight, old friends. Sleep at last.

Lights and shadows spill from the explosions, glance off his pale skin, and turn his face into a kaleidoscope. His eyes are somber but his mouth smiles, as if there is still some small part of him that cannot help but grin at the beauty, despite the dulling ache that manages to tamper it down to a mere twitch of his lips.

Sometimes—when his companions are nestled in their lives on earth and the TARDIS is echoing with emptiness and the universe no longer seems so promising—the Doctor wishes he was a star, so that he too could rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you guys think, feedback would be glorious! Thanks for reading, loves! 
> 
> xoxo siennna


End file.
